James Crumley 1939-2008

My friend J. texted me today to tell me James Crumley, writer of wonderfull, boozy detective novels, died. Actually, Crumley died last week and why should it matter to me? I didn’t know the guy, I just liked the way he wrote. He always made me extremely thirsty, with his detectives drinking, shooting and snorting their way through the shadier parts of Texas, Montana and Mexico.

He wasn’t a bestselling author, but he was one of those guys with a cult following who, like me, wanted to read everything he wrote. The New York Times said of his debut that it was “a story of bars, brawls, and brothels.” Apparently he inspired the great Dennis Gone, baby, Gone Lehane, and the likes of Michael Connelly.

His later work, and especially The final country (2005), to be honest, sucked. I wish I could say it was his finest hour, but it was a way too complex tale with so many different people I felt I was accidentally reading War & Peace or some other, long winded 19th century novel. But then with a threesome and a lot of coke thrown in for good measure.

However, one of his other books, The last good kiss, was some of the most fun I’ve had reading, with the brilliant opening

When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonora, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.

So yes, it does matter that he died last week. Because you’d wish people who came up with alcoholic bulldogs would just live to write forever. So tonight I had a beer and toasted a fine writer. It was supposed to be tequila but I’m in rural Spain and off season you take what you can get. I’m sure Crumley’s alcohol inspired PI C.W. Shugrue would agree.

Let’s hope that wherever Crumley has gone they serve excellent tequila.

Moving To Andalusia